


Best Way to be Interrupted

by Dagger_Stiletto



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Relationships, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Pre-Slash, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dagger_Stiletto/pseuds/Dagger_Stiletto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake has never left any room for doubt as to how he feels about Aisha al-Fadhil. He hasn't trusted her since he laid eyes on her. He is not surprised that it all ends up being a trap. Clay will regret this, especially if he and Pooch don't make it back alive. Jolene and Cougar will make sure of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Way to be Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for AO3. It is my first fic for The Losers fandom. It is also the first fic I have written in over a year. I'm a little rusty. Hopefully it is liked, and if I can get even one kudos, I will be one happy lady :D Also, I write my fics on a Word document before posting, and the original title was Two-Faced Bitches. Not that that's important, but I thought I'd share. Translations are from spanishdict.com, so if there are mistakes, my dear Spanish-speaking friends, please do not kill me~ I hope you all enjoy, and please let me know if you find any translation problems and/or spelling issues.

_Jake A. Jensen has never_ left any room for doubt as to how he feels about Ms. Hot-to-Trot, Bitch-Face Aisha al-Fadhil. He hasn’t trusted her since he laid eyes on her, had agreed wholeheartedly with Roque’s warnings and protests right up to the point of exposure of his betrayal. The remaining Losers warn Clay regularly of Captain Two-Face’s shadiness, but they fall on deaf ears.

It’s like beating a brick wall with a bat made of toothpicks adhered together with Elmer’s glue.

After the scene with Roque’s death, Jake visited his family and used the super computer in his sister’s basement to hack through every interface in the world, every site, every confidential piece of bullshit and print all the evidence needed to clear the Losers’ names. He contacted Steve Rogers, aka Captain America and Great-Uncle Steve, and provided the information to him and his superiors. Within 48 hours, they were cleared of all slander and crimes on their records resulting from anything to do with Codename Max.

Nick Fury then brought Spec Ops team, The Losers, under a division of SHIELD as a favor to Steve, and probably as an excuse to exploit Jake’s hacker capabilities anytime he wants.

The transfer turned out to work in everyone’s favor. Pooch and Jolene, and Alison and Beth—Jake by default—all moved into a community that many SHIELD employees’ families reside within to be closer to their danger-prone men and women as well as be safer in the long run.

It’s scary how well the two women got along, and Bethie loved babysitting Puppy Pooch.

But now he’s off track.

Despite being employed by SHIELD, and getting paid fifteen percent more than they had been before the shitstorm in Loser history, Colonel Franklin Clay still accepts “intel” from Human Ear Collecting Extraordinaire on Max. Still under his command, Pooch and Cougar blindly obeyed the old man’s orders, and even though he verbally and expressly conveyed his doubts and desire not to take anything Aisha says deeper than face-value, Jake went along with them.

He is not in the least bit surprised that it all ends up being a trap. He, ever the soldier with a plan for someone to be able to save their asses when Intel is shit, manages to smash the panic button installed in the heel of his boot that will set off an alarm on Uncle Steve’s watch before they’re overtaken. Hopefully it hadn’t damaged the tracking device.

As far as he knows, only he and Pooch were taken prisoner. Cougar for sure escaped, but he has no idea about Colonel Dumbass. Clay will regret this. He’ll regret listening to the two-faced, lying bitch over the voices of his team, especially if he and Pooch don't make it back alive. Jolene and Cougar will make sure of it.

In a cell with unconscious Pooch, Corporal Jake Jensen prays the man isn’t in a coma. A tiny part of him almost hopes he is so he can tell Jolene who is at fault and watch her and probably Alison go apeshit on Aisha. All he knows for sure is that the engineer had a large lump at the base of his skull, and he hasn’t been awake any of the time that Jake has spent in this tiny cell over the last day and a half.

Of course, he’s been dragged away a few times for some interrogation and torture every four to five hours, so it’s hard to tell. So far he’s been flogged, waterboarded, has had the soles of his feet caned so that he can’t even walk now—the bastards literally have to drag him now—and as with any imprisonment, some old-fashioned beatings. His glasses are missing, so he can’t see very well, and he’s sure that his bruises have bruises now. Luckily, he has no broken bones, but he fears infection in the raw, open wounds on his back from the steel-tipped flogger.

Jake licks his chapped lips and launches into song, hating the silence except for the occasional sounds of the guard shifting position. He’s not bad at singing, and when he’d been forced to attend church by one of the four foster mothers he and Alison had had, he’d been a choir boy, but now he purposely sings off-key and too loudly. Anything to make the bastards uncomfortable while he’s cold, wet, aching, dirty, and starving—he’s close to going on 48 hours without food.

And it will hopefully protect his incapacitated companion.

Or wake him up.

He’s not sure which scenario is preferable.

He doesn’t stick to any one genre, going from “Pain” by Three Days Grace, to “Barbie Girl”, to “Wiggle” by Jason Derulo—he hates the song, but he figures he can make it that much more annoying because of it—to “Achy Breaky Heart” by Billy Ray Cyrus. The guard is getting a rather spectacular facial spasm, which had only started out as a slight eye twitch. He even tried to sing dubstep. His voice is getting raspy and hoarse, but he keeps going right up to the point that the guard slams a kick into his ribs, knocking him sideways.

“Ow! How rude. Do you kick all of your guests?” he demands. “I gotta say, I’m not feeling the love here. Cold room, no bed, not even a toilet. Just a bucket. This is the modern age, my friend! Indoor plumbing! Not like in the Roman age where you shat in a chamber pot and empty it out the window onto the street. That’s how the plague began, you know. Did you kno—”

The guard snarls and grabs his jaw, effectively stopping the incessant chatter. “If you don’t shut up, I will sew you lips shut,” he growls, and Jake believes him.

Not that he’ll admit it.

Jake shuts up for all of ten minutes. Then he begins squirming and shuffling, making whatever noise possible without opening his mouth. He’s getting tired of sitting on his ass in this cramped cell, tired of feeling cold unrelenting concrete beneath him. He aches and stings from the wounds he’s acquired. He rolls over to Pooch, checks his pulse, checks his pupils, his breathing, careful not to clock him with the heavy chains of his shackles.

“Don’t you worry, buddy,” he whispers, rubbing the man’s shoulder awkwardly. “I’ll take the beatings. You just rest. Jolene will beat you up all she wants when you get home.”

He wants to go home so badly. Wants to see Bethie at her next soccer game, see her practice with a lacrosse stick—which she has only just taken interest in when she learned her Uncle Jake had played for two years in high school before a bad break in his leg. Poke fun at his sister; work with Pooch on cars since the man can do the mechanics but not the computer-operated features. He wants to enjoy Jolene’s cookies again, bail Clay out of jail for hitting on the wrong woman or rescue his house from being burned to the ground for the same reason, different woman. Finish learning Spanish and start learning French to add to the Slavic, Arabic, and Russian he already knows. Pine longingly after Cougar and imagine what that slender, strong body feels like between his thighs or pressed against his back with a tanned arm wrapped around his waist as they sleep.

He’d like to have a chance to make the fantasies and unsaid words a reality…

He looks up at the clang of the dungeon door—not really a dungeon, but Jake has a flare for the dramatic, and it’s a little demeaning to say he’s in a basement—announcing the arrival of his tormentors. He has managed to scoot away from Pooch so he won’t be the target when they look at him.

“Hey guys, did you bring me that pizza I ordered five hours ago? You’re sweethearts!” Jake grins winningly.

Of course, no one here has a sense of humor. They tromp in like cavemen and grab him up to drag him out and down the long corridor, up a few stairs, and halfway down another corridor to their favorite torture chamber—still like cavemen. He sighs as they strap him down in a chair, forearms flat to the chair arms, his hands able to curl around the curved ends if he wanted, feet heavily shackled to the chair legs. The back of the chair was tall enough to strap his head to, and he gets a sick feeling in his empty, cramping stomach.

His fears are confirmed as a machine is wheeled over and electrodes are attached to his head.

This was going to suck monkey balls.

Head Honcho of the Bastard Brigade walks in during Jake’s internal mini-panic attack, his polished shoes clicking on the concrete floor as he walks at a steady pace around to stand in front of the blonde techie. He looks like Ben Kingsley, except 50 pounds heavier, scars on his face that look like he was attacked by an irate cat, a purple splotch above his left temple the size of a peach, a chunk of his right nostril missing, and a burn along the right side of his jaw. So a really ugly, overweight, and foul-tempered version of Ben Kingsley.

“Hello again, General Asshat, I see you have a new toy,” Jake says, fake bravado and jokes slipping through as naturally as the sun rises to cover his fear. He should have been an actor. Or a one-man Geek Squad. An actor that plays an evil techie mastermind.

“Ah yes. And you will no doubt have the pleasure to feel its bite,” the man replies. “Although, as I have told you many times, all you have to do is truthfully answer my questions, and you and your friend can be released.”

“And I’m sure you can understand why I’m a little skeptical about that pinky-less promise,” Jake replies, hating that he can’t move more than a twitch or the curling of 20 phalanges.

“Mm, yes, well, it looks to me like you’re running out of options.”

“There are always limitless options,” Jake babbles as he tracks the thugs clunking around him with his wide blue eyes. “The issue is the limits of the human brain. There is a theory that contends the average human can voluntarily access only ten to fifteen percent of their brain. The rest is all involuntary impulses and instincts. We are all severely limited in one way or another.” He looks up at Evil Ben Kingsley. “Taking that into consideration, how can you be sure that I even remember anything? My brain is hardwired for all things techie and nerdy geekiness and useless trivia. I have no room for anything else.”

Captain Fugly is silent for a moment, and he picks up a syringe with a pale yellow liquid inside. Jake feels his muscles tense. “Well then maybe you need something to boost your memory.”

Jake swallows. He has a feeling whatever is in that syringe is bad news. But he doesn’t ask. He won’t show weakness, even though he’s quaking inside, screaming for help in his mind, wishing he had super powers like Uncle Steve’s Avenger buddies. If he says anything, his voice may break, and he won’t risk it.

“This little liquid is about to become your worst enemy,” Evil Ben Kingsley states. “After a mere minute upon injection of only a few drops of what’s in this syringe, every sensation will double in intensity. Imagine what it would like for _all_ of it to enter your system.” The man grins sickeningly sweet and pats Jake’s sweaty face. “Of course, if you behave, you will not have to find out.”

The saliva in his mouth had long already dried up, but Jake still swallows hard. He wants to vomit, but there would be no satisfaction in the act, as he has nothing in his stomach to expel except bile. He licks his lips. The blood in his veins pounds in his ears, blocking out Tormentor Numero Uno’s voice so that he doesn’t realize he’d been asked something until a wedge is shoved in his mouth to keep him from biting off his tongue and drowning in his own blood.

The pain of the electroshock treatment that lances through him, body convulsing, muscles locked in agony, is truly indescribably. A scream wrenches from him, and his fingers grip white-knuckled and clawing the wood. Later on, he’ll swear he could smell his brain frying, but right now, nothing registers but the uncontrollable seizing of his body, the pain of clenching his teeth so hard around the wedge that he’s afraid they’ll crack and shatter.

It seems to be an eternity before he is given relief, and he slumps heavily. Static crackles in his ears like white noise in a radio as he tries to gain his bearings, and sweat from exertion drips off his chin and nose. He gradually becomes aware of General Doom asking him something, grinning with satisfaction, and he realizes the wedge has been removed.

“Are you ready to cooperate, Mr. Jensen?” the bastard asks, clearly thinking the single session was enough to sway Jake’s resolve.

“Fuck you,” the blonde pants. He doesn’t remember giving them his name, but then again, Aisha had probably given the enemy their names if they paid her enough, even if she hadn’t given _all_ of her Intel.

A displeased expression crosses the man’s scarred face, and he shakes his head. “How disappointing. I suppose we will have to proceed to the less pleasant approach. Just remember that we could have done this the easy way. You brought this upon yourself.”

Jake tires to thrash and break the hold on his head and his arms as the General of all Assholes carefully slides the hypodermic needle into a vein. He barely presses down on the plunger, injecting perhaps what only could have been three or four drops. Jensen doesn’t feel anything at first. The wedge is forced back into his mouth, and Jake can’t help but think the texture of it is different, and the size of it more pronounced after a few moments more.

His mind is wiped clean like a dry-erase board, electricity ripping through him, frying his nerves and destroying his brain. His body seizes, and dear God it’s so much worse than before! He thinks he can feel his eyes boiling in their sockets like eggs in a pan full of water. He’s not sure if he’s screaming, but he thinks that he has to be.

He does a fantastic impression of a ragdoll when the electricity cuts out again. He slowly comes to, and he realizes he’s pissed himself. He can officially curl up and die now. The men around him are smug and taunt him with the glints in their eyes that he can barely see with his crappy ones. His lips are swollen and cracked as the wedge is taken from him, and his skin is hot, pouring sweat, from becoming a conductor. His heart is having a hard time find its normal rhythm, and his lungs ache and struggle for air.

A touch to his face makes Jake flinch despite hating himself for it. His jumpy gaze, unable to focus, lands on Lieutenant Prick of Pricksville. He tries to jerk his head away, hating the feel of anything touching him right now.

“The more you resist the more of my serum I will inject into you. Did I mention that the entire dose can cause heart failure? No? Forgive me, my friend, I can often be forgetful. It must be that small percentage you mentioned before.”

“ _Hijo de puta_ ,” Jake weakly snarls in some Spanish Cougar taught him. His tongue feels too large for his mouth, and he struggles not to bite it or let it loll out of his mouth. He barely bites back a scream of agony as a simple backhanded bitchslap feels like something broke his face. “ _Ublyudok!_ ” he shouts in Russian, and he receives another blow to his other cheek.

He spouts desperate expletives as another few drops of the serum enter his system. They shove the wedge in roughly, busting his lips and bruising them more than before. This time, Jake loses all sense of time, loses his name and age and self. All that exists is the pain, oh God please make it stop! It hurts, it hurts, can’t breathe. Make it stop, it hurts, dear _fucking_ GOD!

After an eternity, Jake hangs limp in his bindings, unable to register anything for a full minute or two. Emperor of all Evil is still there, and he is patient as he waits for his prisoner to acknowledge the world again. Jake half wishes he could just sink into a coma like Pooch. Just sink into a deep nothingness where fucking _oxygen_ doesn’t feel like needles stabbing his lungs and esophagus.

Jake can feel the injuries of his previous “interrogations” tenfold. The pain throbs through him, and he realizes as well that burns like blistered sun-exposed skin are bubbling up on his arms and chest. He would swear his bindings are rubbing his flesh clean off if not for his eyes, although blurry and wet, telling him otherwise. Could be hallucinating, though. Malnourished, dehydrated, and having just gone through his third round of electroshocks, it’s not completely out of the question.

A rough hand grips his hair, pulling at his head to get him to focus. “Mr. Jensen, I suggest that you begin to cooperate. You are far too useful in your field to simply let die, but I am not too softhearted to allow this gross disregard for orders to slide by. Either you do as I ask, or you die a slow and agonizing death.”

He has no idea where he finds the strength, or how he drags it through, but Jake hawks a loogie at the man’s feet, eyes dull with anger and pain. He’d rather die. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to protect Pooch from anything afterwards, but leaving him alone is far better than divulging secrets about the whole team and SHIELD.

He’s punched in the stomach for his efforts, and Jake cries out hoarsely. He would have doubled over if his restraints allowed such movement. Tears leak from his eyes, and he’s unsure how his dehydrated system can spare the moisture, what with a full time job of producing sweat. He barely registers the pain of that damned needle or the wedge, resigning himself to his fate and praying to a God he doesn’t believe in that his family, his friends, his team, and his unrequited love will forgive him for dying before the rescue team could barge in and _rescue_ them.

After this session, Jake is sure he’s brain damaged and has lost valuable memories. The morons had probably not thought of the possibility of electrocuting the “valuable information” clean out of their subject’s skull. Blackness encroaches on his fuzzy vision. Some of his blisters have burst open and are oozing blood and clear liquid down his reddened flesh.

He is in agony, and he is silently begging the Powers That Be for death.

“Are you ready now, Mr. Jensen?”

Silence. He struggles to move lips, tongue, and jaw. Even when he succeeds, only painful-sounding rasping escapes from his throat. He coughs, wheezes. Everything hurts. It’s like he’s just one big open wound, burning and festering even as life fluid seeps from him.

“’Bout fucking time he lost his voice,” someone says gruffly, swiftly followed by a thwack and an indignant shout.

The building shakes suddenly, something Jake can acutely feel even without that damned serum Harsh pain lances through him from what he is sure are slight trembles resulting from a far-off explosion. He hears another explosion, screams and gunfire, and the startled gasps of the men in the room with him. Said men scramble and leave, including Evil Ben Kingsley, most likely looking for their weapons or for escape routes.

That had better be his goddamn rescue team, or he’d be sure to haunt everyone in SHIELD in his afterlife.

Jake fades in and out, and he’s not sure how much time lapses. He can hear screams, angry shouts and commands, the cacophony of explosions and running feet, and what he thinks could be the sound of Iron Man’s boot-jets. He tries to focus, tries to remain aware so he’s prepared, but what he can possibly due with that preparation is limited to blink, cry, scream, flinch, and die. He can’t move, can’t escape, can’t alert anyone to where he is. All he can do is hope someone friendly stumbles across him before he dies of blood loss and/or heart failure.

“Jake!”

The blonde startles, gasping, causing himself more anguish as someone bursts into the room a second before the cry, the door wrenching off its hinges. He wants to turn his head, wants to speak, to smile in greeting at his savior. Uncle Steve, complete in his Captain America suit, comes into his line of vision. He kneels, the shield strapped across his back like the shell of a turtle, and reaches to touch his nephew’s face, but Jake flinches away, eyes wild and round like a terrified stallion’s.

“Don’t,” he forces out. “Don’t touch. Serum… Don’t touch…” His eyes fall to the table close to him with the syringe lying mostly forgotten.

Steve pockets it, eyes solemn, understanding. “I have to touch you, son, or I can’t get you out of here. Bear with me.” His expression, while riddled with worry and concern, is stone-cold and serious. Then Tony, in his Iron Man suit, is there, and he and Steve work on freeing Jake from his restraints.

He’s in misery. Pain washes over him in constant waves, and it is all he can do to keep from screaming or crying like the torture victim he is. He wishes someone would just knock him out; he would be unaware of any pain if he was unconscious.

“Steve, that sniper is going postal out there,” Tony gabs as he cuts away the last shackle on his ankle. “It’s all I could do to keep him from coming down here to find Squirt himself. The next option was to chain his leg to the post.”

“I would do the same thing if it was you in this chair, Ton,” Captain American says softly, gray eyes dark and somber. He carefully scoops his broken nephew into a bridal carry, as the fireman’s carry would be too rough on his body. Both Avengers flinch as Jake lets out a bloodcurdling shriek anyway.

The heat, the pain, the fucking _air._ It’s all stripping away at his skin, his eyes, his lungs. Every movement, as they carry him down the hall, Tony in front and a SHIELD agent—Agent Coulson?—who appears out of nowhere, covers their 6. Through the haze of pain and the fog over his vision, Jake can see battle, blood, and immobile bodies. Heat outside of his burning flesh flares in random spots, reporting fires from the explosions. A glint from above hints at a sniper.

“Cougs,” Jake croaks.

“Yeah, he’s here, Jake. You’ll see him soon,” Steve murmurs, jostling him unintentionally as he kicks a downed man with a gun in the head.

“Pooch!” he says with sudden alarm, muscles tensing. His body wants to move, to lead them to his fallen comrade, even though all he can actually do is hang in his uncle’s arms like a wet noodle.

“He’s up and move and trying to commandeer the getaway jet, even though he has a concussion that should have killed him,” Iron Man states firmly.

Jake lets himself relax—as much as he can anyway. He fades in and out of reality, always riding on a sea of anguish that somehow keeps him anchored. Blue eyes glazed with agony barely register the death all around and the capture of select key suspects. Then they’re on a jet, large enough for a whole army, and Cougar is there. Dear God, Cougs. Jake flails an arm out to him, suddenly aware that he’s on a gurney, and medics are trying to get him stabilized.

Cougar grabs his hand, his touch gentle, eyes unreadable. One hand holds his, the fingers of the other gently stroking the skin on the back of Jake’s hand. It’s agony, but Jake squashes his whimper because it’s Cougar. Cougar is the only one he would let beat and flog and kill him without a sound. He’s belonged to Cougar since the moment Jake joined the Losers, and only Cougar could destroy him.

“What’s wrong with him?” Pooch demands, beside Cougar near Jake’s legs. Apparently he has been exiled from the cockpit. “What the hell did they do to you, Jay?”

Jake swallows, breathing, trying to think, trying to remember. He can almost physically feel everyone eyes on his broken body. He wants to curl up and hide until he’s better, huddle against Cougar’s body like a toddler. A hand buries in his hair, but he has no idea whose.

“They wanted SHIELD secrets. Wanted me to reveal plans and bank accounts, and relatives’ names and homes,” he rasps, hoping they can hear. “When I talked about other stuff or sang to deflect, they flogged me, caned my feet, water boarded me. I drowned four times, and they kept bringing me back. I had to stop myself from begging hem to just let die because I had Pooch to bring home to Jolene. I promised her. I promised…”

“Jake,” Cougar whispers, squeezing his fingers only slightly to get him back on track, and he regrets it when the hacker gasps in pain.

“They kept me off food the whole time, stale water, and I shared half of that with Pooch so he didn’t shrivel up like Jolene’s house plants. They’re the only thing she can’t keep alive, I swear. A guard broke a few of my ribs and threatened to sew my lips shut if I didn’t stop singing. And then they dragged me upstairs and strapped me down. The first time they shocked me was just to show me what if felt like. Then King Asshole injected me with some of the serum in that syringe.” His eyes roll towards Uncle Steve, realizing vaguely that he’s the one touching his head.

Steve’s hand pats the pocket to make sure the serum is still there. He brings it out and hands it to Tony. The man will probably analyze it later.

“It intensifies sensations,” the blonde rasps. “The whole dose can lead to heart failure.” He shudders, eyes wet. “I went, I think, three times with more serum in me each time.” He smiles, the expression broken, tinged with blood from a cut inside his mouth from one of the bitchslaps he’d gotten. “I never told the bastards anything.” He can taste the blood in his mouth and wishes for some water.

Cougar curses, pressing his sweaty forehead against the back of Jake’s hand. Pooch’s hands clench hard against the gurney, knuckles brushing the techie’s leg. The hand in his hair gentles, shaking minutely, and he thinks maybe his uncle isn’t as together as he seems to be. Clay, silent till now, is at the foot of the gurney, hunched in on himself.

“Did anyone kill Aisha yet?” Jake demands brokenly after a moment, only just barely able to inject humor in the inquiry. He hisses as there is a split-second of turbulence.

“No,” Clay says, breaking his silence, and it’s a rush of anger that overtakes Jake that he is only half-surprised at. This dumb blind bastard _would_ vouch for the backstabbing bitch.

“Not for lack of trying,” Cougar snarls now, face ugly with hatred as his eyes pierce Clay. If looks could kill…

“She is in custody,” Nick Fury says from nowhere. Jake doesn’t bother trying to find him, too exhausted. Not like he could actually see him anyway. “She will not be causing anymore trouble. I have a team working on erasing her from the world as we speak.”

Which means the hacker will be doing recon himself to make sure the job is done _right._ But that’s for another time; right now all he wants is rest.

“’M tired,” he says softly, head turned so he can see his most important person. Cougar looks tired, too, and it is apparent he has not rested since Jake’s and Pooch’s capture. “Is it safe to sleep awhile?”

“Sleep all you want, son,” a nameless, faceless medic says. “You’ve done enough, soldier, and you don’t have a concussion. Get some rest.”

The hacker smiles weakly, closing his eyes. He lets everything go, body boneless, fast fading finally. The last thing he is aware of is not the pain crippling him, or the sound of people around him, or the feel of the plane slicing through the air, but what he could swear is Cougar’s lips pressing a kiss to his hand.

~*~~*~~*~

 _It is four days before_ Jake is awake next. Before he opens his eyes, he does silent inventory on his body. His back aches and stings from the whips, but he can tell there’s salve and bandages covering them. His legs are intact, the soles of his feet less sore than they had been, his fingers can wiggle, and his bruises are less angry than before. He blinks and glances all around the room he is in. He still can’t see well, but he can tell it’s not like your average hospital room. It almost looks like a bedroom. He is glaringly aware of the warmth and lack of mind-addling pain. He sees Cougar perched on a window seat nearby, rifle in hand, a cleaning cloth resting on a knee as he watches out the window.

“Hey, Cougs,” Jake says, sitting up with some effort. He feels the wrap around his torso, confirming that he’d acquired a few fractures in his ribs. “Got any food in this place?”

Cougar is up and at his side in a split second, and he is studying Jake intensely, as if to make sure he is well and not in pain. Jake doesn’t feel fantastic, but he’s definitely better than he _was._ He nods to himself, eyes somber beneath the brim of his iconic cowboy hat. The sniper reaches into a drawer on the stand beside them and pulls out a protein bar and a pair of Jake’s many spare glasses.

“Awww, you’re too good to me,” Jake says, accepting both. He focuses on the candy bar that he can see _clearly_ now while Cougar leaves the room. He ignores the mini-panic attack. He’s only gone for a few minutes, bringing back a whole crew with a tray of food and water. Jake makes grabby hands at the food, and his niece crawls onto the bed with him as he eats.

Jolene and Pooch are there with Puppy Pooch, Steve and Tony, Alison, Clay, and Cougar, all gathered in the small room with him. Each of them hug him or pat his shoulder, smiles on their faces. Alison hugs him and smacks him right after, berating him for making her and Bethie worry about him all the time. Puppy Pooch waves his arms around, gurgling

They chatter and keep him company; at one point, a somewhat tearful Jolene hugs him and thanks him without being specific as to what—they all know why—and she hands him a bag of his favorite cookies, home-baked and delicious-smelling even through the plastic of the bag. It feels like it weighs five pounds; someone went overboard. They let him know what’s been going on while he’s asleep, especially the part where Aisha will be imprisoned for the rest of her life in a high-security prison run specifically by SHIELD. Beth excitedly tells him about school and the new kid that is quiet but funny and follows her, even when he thinks she doesn’t notice.

“You have a mini Tio Cougar following you,” Jake laughs, hugging his niece close. “Cougars are the best there are, you know. You’ll never have a better friend. If you can find a Pooch, they you’re set for life” He grins and kisses her head.

“What about Uncle Clay?” she asks, eyes wide.

“Keep him away from the psychos,” he says. He doesn’t want to get into how he feels about Clay right now. Some things, Bethie isn’t really ready to know about yet. “A friend like Clay needs a little supervision so he doesn’t get into trouble himself, but he’ll have you back, and he’ll never leave you behind.”

Clay is wisely silent, and no one says anything to him.

Beth grins, then kisses his cheek. “Be good, Uncle Jay! We gotta go to my soccer game now! Since you can’t come, I’m making everyone but Tio Cougar come so they can tell you what happens.”

“I already know! You’re gonna cream them, Bethie, but why not Cougar? He loves your games.” He glances over at Cougar, who is back in the window seat but facing the room, gun safely tucked away.

“But he loves Uncle Jake more.”

Jake’s eyes widen in surprise. Everyone takes the opportunity to file out after that, and Jake is left with Cougar. He blinks and looks fully at the sniper, his best friend, the only man he will do anything for. It’s awkward, and Jake isn’t sure what to do or say. Finally, he finishes off the water and sets the tray on the floor. He swings his legs off the side of the bed.

Cougar is instantly beside him with his ninja-like silence and swiftness. “What are you doing?”

“Gotta pee, man,” Jake answers, grinning. “Wanna help?”

The sniper grunts and helps Jake to his feet. The hacker hobbles and limps to it, closing the door firmly. He can use the wall and sink for support, and he does. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror. He knows he looks like hell. From what he’s been told, he was lucking his insides hadn’t burned like his skin had.

He’s just happy he’s alive.

Jake comes out after washing his hands to find Cougar there to help him back to bed. He sits on the edge of it and grabs the sniper’s hands to stop him from fussing and making him lay down again. He catches Cougar’s gaze, studying him silently. He feels strangely calm, even though he’s about to let the cat out of the bag.

“I love you, too, you know,” the blonde blurts. “The thought of you coming for me kept me sane. You’ve always had my back, no matter what, and I knew that you’d make sure that I’d make it home, even if it was only to be buried. Even when I was only on loan, not really part of the team yet, you had my back, and I had a crush on you for a long time. The sexy Spanish warrior in a cowboy hat who could have anything he wanted with a single smirk or tilt of the hat.” He grins, remembering just how often Cougar had proved the statement correct.

He’s aware that he’s babbling, but the words just keep flowing. He’s a slave to his own voice sometimes. “You didn’t even have to speak most times. Somewhere along the line, the crush kinda just got deeper and dirtier. Some of the wet dreams I had of you are downright embarrassing, Cougs, and I’m lucky they were on the nights you and I didn’t have to share a bed or a sleeping bag. I know you many not feel the exact level of love I feel for you, but I wanted you to know. I wanted to make sure everything between us is right, and that we’re good, cuz you’re important to me, and our friendship is the all I truly need, and I will always treat you the same even if—”

 A kiss is truly the best way to be interrupted.

It isn’t a sappy, flowery kiss like in those girly movies. It isn’t like those kisses that are rough, harsh, and that leave his bruised and swollen and misty-eyed, and it isn’t one of the ones that make the kissers look like they’re trying to eat each other’s faces. Fireworks don’t explode in his head or across his vision. He isn’t suddenly overcome with lust, nor does he go weak-kneed like a virginal teen. The choir of God or a dramatic orchestra does not fill his ears or begin playing in the room with them, nor does he feel the urge to break _into_ song. Cartoon hearts don’t magically float from their heads, and a golden glow doesn’t surround them like the grace of God. It’s not a perfect kiss by normal society’s standards.

But Jake’s not normal, so it’s to be expected that none of those things matter to him.

Although not silky smooth from regular use of chapstick, Cougar’s lips are soft with the slightest bit of chapped roughness against Jake’s own split ones. The stubble from five o’clock shadow gently scrapes at his own days’ worth of growth. His breath puffs against the hacker, and when their tongues touch, Jake can taste that Cougar stole a cookie from the bag Jolene had brought. His skin is warm, and the feeling of safety Jake has always felt around the Hispanic sniper increases. The other male has clear skill in the kisses, probably from all _las chicas_ he’d gone home with in the past.

He leans into cougar, hands resting on slim hips as his thumbs hook into his belt loops. His eye are mostly closed, but he can’t help watching Cougar’s face as they kiss, smiling a little when warm brown eyes meet his. One warm, callused hand cups the back of his neck, and the other gently clenched in his blonde spikes. With him sitting on a bed and Cougar standing straight, wedged between his knees, Jake has to tilt his head up a little to kiss back more comfortably. When a callused thumb brushes lightly over the skin beneath his ear, Jake shudders with a soft noise of pleasure. His eyes fall shut sometime after.

The pace is lazy and exploratory, Cougar sensitive and careful of the bruises around his mouth and the cuts inside, and it makes him warm all over. There can’t be a more perfect kisser than Cougar, Jake decides, and he feels himself hardening inside the sweatpants someone had put him in.

Finally, after who knows how long, they break away and just breathe against each other, foreheads pressed together. The silence is comfortable, and while Cougar gently strokes his hair, Jake’s thumbs move from his belt loops to just under the hem of the sniper’s plan white T-shirt, rubbing at the creases of Cougar’s hips and the hipbones. He silently revels in the comfortable safety here, feeling Cougar’s breath and warmth and strength, lips probably just a little puffy and red from the length of the kiss. His paler complexion would add to that as well, probably.

“So, I’m going to guess that you either feel the same way,” Jake says eventually—because really, how long do you expect him to stay quiet?—“or you get turned on by hearing me singing your praises.”

Cougar chuckles, kissing his forehead. “ _Sí. Mi amor._ ”

Jake shivers, stomach fluttering a little at the Spanish endearment. He nuzzles the dark flesh of Cougar’s throat. “And since my 11-year-old niece is smart enough to see it before we were, I’m hoping we don’t have to hide our relationship in front of the others, right?”

“No hickeys,” Cougar warns simply, tugging gently at the short hairs at Jake’s nape before returning to his smooth petting.

“Is that all?” the hacker says, surprised.

“ _Sí_.”

“I can handle that. No biting me, then.”

“ _Puedo hacerlo, mi amado_.”

“I understood most of that. I haven’t gotten to ‘ _amado_ ’ yet. Is it like ‘ _amor_ ’?”

“ _Sí_. Beloved.”

“I’m going to have to come up with a cool endearment for you,” Jake mutters. He yawns, head resting against the sniper’s shoulder. He’s a little tired, but he ignores it in favor of cuddling with his teammate-turned-boyfriend.

“ _Lo que quieras,_ Jensen.” His voice is amused now.

“You can call me Jake when we’re alone. You get many privileges and perks when you become the boyfriend of the infamous hacker Corporal Jacob Jensen.” He grins and winks. He’s a lot happier than he’s been in a while, and although he’s talkative, he feels no need to be loud and overly expressive. He already has the attention of the one he wants, and really, it’s quite rude to be loud when that person is right up against you.

“Like what, _querido_?”

“Limitless candy and cookies, Bethie and Alison—although you had them already, but now it’ll be official—clean clothes, the best of anything that can be found on the internet, your own personal geek squad for all computer needs even when not on the job, exclusion from my most brilliant pranks, a warm and willing body, cuddles…”

Cougar laughs, one of the rare ones that come from his belly, and pushes Jake to scoot back on the bed and lie down. He, too, reclines on the bed beside the blonde, and Jake babbles on and on about the “advantages” of being involved with him until Cougar shuts him up with a kiss once more.

Still the best way to be interrupted.

 

~*~~*~~*~

 _Hijo de puta:_ Son of a bitch

 _Ublyudok:_ Motherfucker (Russian)

 _Mi amor:_ My love

 _Puedo hacerlo, mi amado:_ I can do this, my beloved.

 _Lo que quieras:_ Whatever you want.

 _Querido:_ Darling (masculine)


End file.
